


(There's Nothing Wrong With) Who You Are

by scrapbullet



Series: Little Adventures [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Baking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Gen, Non-Sexual Age Play, Not Beta Read, Papa!Clint, little!Natasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 20:48:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6581557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it comes down to is this; it’s easier to be little than she thought it would be.</p><p>Here, now, Natasha knows her Papa will look after her and keep her safe. It’s not something Papa has actually said, but she knows it’s true anyway. He’ll protect her from anything and anyone that would want to cause her harm, and so she can finally relax and allow herself to enjoy the fun tasks that have been set for the afternoon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(There's Nothing Wrong With) Who You Are

“Do you trust me?”

“No, but don’t be insulted; I wouldn’t trust anyone with something like this.”

That’s the thing about trust; you have to open yourself up. That’s hard enough for civilians, but for someone like _her_ , well, then it’s just that much more difficult. What’s that phrase? Once bitten, twice shy? The bite became infected a long time ago. 

Clint slouches down further into the couch, thighs parted wide and posture one of nonchalance. Laura and the children have long since gone to bed, and the sleep-soft sound of the baby through the monitor is soothing. It reminds Natasha precisely why she’s here.

“So why me?” Clint asks. He gestures towards the low coffee table absently, an eyebrow lifting in question. A glass of milk sits on a coaster, the glass beaded with condensation.

There’s an ache in Natasha’s chest that, for a moment, makes her feel breathless. 

They’ve barely begun and he’s already taking care of her. 

“Do you want me to extol your virtues? Your ego is sizeable enough as it is.”

Clint chuckles, and as he leans forward Natasha twitches involuntarily. It’s enough. The curiosity on Clint’s face gives way to concern, and he’s always been demonstrative. With slow and deliberate motions he pulls himself to his feet, plucks up the glass and wraps Natasha’s hands around it with the ease of an experienced father. 

Air shudders out of her in a heady rush. Sighing, she allows Clint to guide the glass to her lips and tip it back, to fill her mouth with the cool richness of full-fat milk. 

It’s just the merest hint of possibility, but it makes her eyes prick with tears nonetheless.

“You need this, or you wouldn’t have brought it up, Tash. You’re twitchy. You can’t concentrate. On four separate occasions I’ve caught you disassociating. It makes me worry.” 

The weakness makes her nauseous. Or is it fear? 

Clint is dependable. He asks no questions Natasha cannot answer, and he has always been there for her; trusting her when no-one else would. He can do this. _She_ can do this. Dizzily, she presses her forehead to his shoulder, letting him take all of her (in)considerable weight. “I shouldn’t need this, Clint.” 

_I should be able to let it go, but I can’t_.

Calloused hands gently pry her fingers away from the glass. Her knuckles are white, the joints aching. His arms envelope her in a hold not so tight as to be constrictive, but enough to give the illusion of safety. “But you do,” Clint murmurs, lips pressed against her temple. “And if it’s something I can give... then, sweetheart, I’ll give it to you, if you’ll only just let me.” 

_Trust me_ , he says, and Natasha lets herself go.

“Papa,” she replies, and he hugs her close as the tears finally come.

~

What it comes down to is this; it’s easier to be little than she thought it would be. 

Here, now, Natasha knows her Papa will look after her and keep her safe. It’s not something Papa has actually _said_ , but she knows it’s true anyway. He’ll protect her from anything and anyone that would want to cause her harm, and so she can finally relax and allow herself to enjoy the fun tasks that have been set for the afternoon. 

Natasha _loves_ baking. 

She loves making a mess of her Papa even more.

Papa, covered from head to toe in flour, rests his hands on his hips and although he looks stern - eyebrows raised questioningly, tapping a foot - Natasha can tell he’s only pretending. Seconds later he’s smiling, laughing, catching her up in his arms to gleefully rub flour into her hair. “Hah! Now you look like a ghost, too, Casper!”

Giggling, Natasha tries to hide her face against Papa’s chest, batting uselessly at his hands. “No, Papa, no!”

Quick fingers deftly tickle her ribs. “Are you a friendly ghost, sweetheart?”

Natasha hiccups, wriggling in an attempt to get away. “No!”

Papa gasps, his eyes wide. “No? Goodness, but what am I doing to do with all these cupcakes? Naughty ghosts don’t get cupcakes.”

Eying the rack of cooling cupcakes covetously - chocolate and vanilla marbled, and Papa had even let her use a cocktail stick to swirl the two mixtures together - Natasha pushes out her lower lip in a pout. The cupcakes just smell so good! “They do get cupcakes, Papa,” she says with imperious authority. “And they get to lick the frosting bowl clean, too.”

With a thoughtful hum Papa brushes his hands free of dusty flour, before he darts forward to lick the tip of Natasha nose. “Oh they do, do they?”

“Ew, that’s gross, Papa,” Natasha exclaims, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her sweater. “I’m not covered in frosting, silly.”

“And yet, you’re as sweet as a sugarplum fairy.” 

When Papa says things like that it makes Natasha’s tummy feel all funny. It’s a happy kind of feeling, she decides, ducking her head a bit to hide the redness of her cheeks, her hands fidgeting with the lip of plastic bowl as Papa starts to measure out the icing sugar. She watches intently as he cubes the butter, gradually mixing it all together until it’s a pale, creamy looking paste. 

Papa hums, and prods Natasha lightly with the end of the wooden spoon. “I think it’s missing something, what do you think munchkin?”

Isn’t it obvious? “It needs chocolate,” she says decisively. “And chocolate sprinkles, too.”

Papa nods in agreement. “All the best cupcakes have chocolate frosting.”

Breaking up the bar of chocolate is one of the best bits, Natasha thinks. Papa wraps it in a cloth towel and bashes it with a wooden spoon - he even lets her, just once! - so that there are lots of tiny pieces to melt. Natasha watches the jug of heavenly chocolate pieces revolve slowly in the microwave, jiggling in the balls of her feet every time Papa takes it out to stir and make sure it hasn’t burnt. “Is it done yet?”

Papa hands her the big spoon with a grin. “Yup. Would you like to do the honours?” 

Stirring in the chocolate is by far the best part about helping Papa bake, Natasha thinks. The rich brown swirls in with the pale yellow of the butter and icing sugar and she happily makes bigger and bigger swirls until it’s all one colour.

“Sweetheart, why don’t you go pick out a movie for us to watch whilst I pipe these, hm?” Papa says, concentrating as he scoops in the chocolate frosting with a spoon.

Natasha definitely doesn’t need to be told twice.

Later, when Stitch is hugging Lilo and Natasha is sleepily licking sugary-sweetness off of her fingers, she thinks that maybe _this_ is the best part of baking with Papa; the feeling of accomplishment, of a full belly and the warm strength of Papa’s arm around her shoulders as he holds her close.

She feels safe. 

Safe and loved.

“You’re the best, Papa,” she mumbles around a mouthful of cupcake, and if a tear slides down her cheek, well, Papa just wipes it away and hugs her all the tighter.


End file.
